We're here
by Totopup
Summary: "Time can be re-written." "Not those times." Post reichenbach, inspired by a post on Tumblr. With the help of The Doctor, Sherlock goes back to John and tells him he's still alive. One-shot, but if there's a lot of interest I will continue.


"Time can be rewritten, Sherlock."

"Not those times." they stood there for a while, both unsure what to say. Sherlock had gone to The Doctor after the fall. He hadn't known where else to go. Now John wasn't there anymore.

"Clever. Rhodedendron Ponticum." The Doctor praised.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Why did you come?"

Again Sherlock didn't answer.

"Where do you want to go." this was more of a statement than a question. The Doctor already knew.

"Three years, Doctor. No more."

"We're here." The Doctor told Sherlock.

He opened the door and let Sherlock go first, following him out the door onto a suburban London street.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked.

"Angelo's. With Lestrade."

Sherlock nodded and slowly walked down the pavement, towards the brightly lit, bustling restaurant. The Doctor decided not to follow. It was hard to tell with humans, even more so with Sherlock, but he had figured he might want to see John by himself.

And there he was. John. Sitting at a table, across from an empty seat. He didn't look too great. There was a glass of whisky in front of him. Lestrade was drunk as can be, up on the karaoke floor, singing his heart out by himself. Sherlock had thought John might have gotten over him by now. How wrong he was.

It was almost as though John had sensed his presence, and he looked up. A Sherlock couldn't bear to look in his eyes. They were distant, brought back for a brief second by hope then gone. John's careful, gentle, loving self had gone. Just as Sherlock had. He didn't want to hurt John. He had never wanted to hurt John. Would he hurt more if he found out that Sherlock was still alive or if Sherlock kept pretending he was dead? Sherlock didn't know. He didn't have much knowledge on that sort of stuff. John would. But he couldn't ask him, could he? The Doctor wasn't human. Molly wouldn't know what to do. His brother would have worked out he wasn't dead, but Mycroft wasn't going to be much use. Sherlock had to do this one on his own.

John walked up to the bar, paying, and Sherlock managed to catch a few words.

"Call a cab for him, would you? I have to go." John said and the barman nodded. He made his way to the door, and Sherlock ducked out of sight, allowing John to hail a cab and drive off. Sherlock ran back to street and asked The Doctor to take him to 221b Baker Street.

"I can go..."

"No. I'm sticking to three years."

The Doctor nodded. He moved over to the console, flicking switches, swirling balls and just generally looking busy and ecstatic. Sherlock sat on the sofa, staring into space. He still had some of the fake blood on his forehead, and he quickly went to one of the TARDIS' many bathrooms and washed it off.

He caught sight of his face in the mirror. Black curls. Pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. But their was an air of something about him. Guilt? Guilt of what? Sherlock didn't know. Guilt that he had left John behind to slowly waste away for three years? Guilt that he didn't come back earlier? Guilt that he had bothered The Doctor with his troubles? He could always go to The Doctor, though. Anyone could.

"Sherlock." The Doctor said from the console room, and the grinding noises stopped. "We're here."

Sherlock looked at The Doctor. Then, without a word, or any kind of sign, he walked out.

He looked back at the TARDIS as it slowly disappeared. He felt alone. The Doctor had gone. He couldn't make him come back. He was now faced with one task. John.

John had already made it home. Sherlock let himself in with his own key, pausing every now and then, remembering. Was he doing the right thing? He remembered when Sherlock had proved that John had a psychosomatic limp. They had laughed, against that wall. Angelo had knocked on the door. John had been happy. So had Sherlock. But now their lives had been smashed to pieces, pieces that Sherlock was now attempting to put gingerly back together.

There was no sound as Sherlock walked slowly up the stairs. He was wondering what John's reaction would be. He would... Faint? Call him a hallucination? Call the police? Does he have another flatmate now? But Sherlock already knew he didn't. There was no one new living here.

He saw John in the living-room. Sherlock hid behind the door, not wanting to come out.

Eventually he did.

And John looked up.

And Sherlock looked at him.

In the eyes.

And they stayed that way for a while.

Then John stood up.

Only to fall back down again.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, and John's eyes snapped open, as if the sound of Sherlock's voice had woken him somehow.

"You're dead." John stated simply, lying on the floor, Sherlock looking over him.

"Well, clearly I'm not."

"You're not real then."

"Of course I'm real." Sherlock said, holding out a hand for John to take, and he pulled him back up.

"I don't believe a hallucination could do that." Sherlock said.

John didn't say anything. For a long time. Just as Sherlock began to worry, John pulled his fist back and punched him.

"What was that for?" Sherlock yelled, staggering back.

"You really are still the insensitive dick, you know? After _**three years!" **_John punched him again.

"Did you really think you could just saunter in here and everything would be fine? I would go "Oh, it's been three years, I've nearly gone out of my mind with grief, but it's OK, I'll just welcome you back with open arms"?" John yelled.

The funny thing was, that was almost exactly what Sherlock had been expecting.

"I didn't want to-"

"You didn't want to hurt me. Right." John said, breathless after his outburst.

"I hardly enjoyed it. I was bored out of my mind..." Sherlock already knew it had been a bad thing to say half way through the sentence.

"You were bored." John was breathing heavily, hardly able to express his anger. "You were bored." he turned his head, as if he didn't want to look at Sherlock. "You were bored. Is that the worst thing? I was on the verge of a mental breakdown, Sherlock. I became a drinker. I went to prison, twice. I tried so hard to forget you. I moved to Australia. I moved out. Nothing worked. And then you saunter in here, complaining you were _**bored?"**_ although being the sociopath he was, Sherlock could tell he was going to have to tread carefully.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes I-"

"I know you better than anyone and you don't mean that."

There was a silence, only broken by the sound of John's heavy breathing.

"Why did you do it?"

Silence.

"I... Had to." Sherlock struggled for the words. "Moriarty would have killed you."

"For three years it felt like I was dead. What's the difference?"

"That I can come back now."

"To make me feel like I didn't matter? Like you forgot to tell me you were alive before you went on your holiday?"

"You do matter."

Silence again.

"How did you do it?"

"Do what?" Sherlock frowned.

"Survive."

Sherlock paused, looking into John's eyes.

"That... Would be telling."


End file.
